


Keep the Light On

by ellieellieoxenfree



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Detroit Evolution, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Octopunk Advent, general traumatic childhood references, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellieellieoxenfree/pseuds/ellieellieoxenfree
Summary: It's the most miserable time of the year.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Keep the Light On

**Author's Note:**

> For several things: Octopunk Advent day 10: candles; my personal Split Enz fic challenge, #25 (still point in a turning world); and for, most of all, Sweet Insanity. Thanks for listening to me kvetch, boo.
> 
> (Poached the title from Tim Freedman, because I am predictable.)
> 
> Also I still haven't played D:BH, so what IS canon? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Gavin has always hated Christmas — everything about it, really: the decorations, the carols, the gifts, the sheer _schmaltz_ of it all. He’d gotten suspended in elementary school after beating the shit out of Charlie Simmons for bragging about the VR headset his parents had gotten him; he was thirteen when Marv Peters — not for the first time — took the belt to him when he found out Gavin was the one who’d slashed the Christmas inflatables in the yard. Gavin took it stoically. He knew he was on his way out with the Peters family, so he was just helping the process along. ‘Happy fuckin’ Christmas!’ he had shouted to Marv as the case worker led him back to the car. He hated going back to the group home, and the next placement would be even worse, but he at least had Marv’s look of horror to give him a bit of holiday cheer.

Christmas has never been for the kids who grew up bouncing from house to house the way he did; it’s a holiday for the ones who were good enough to have families. Gavin had learned early Santa didn’t stop for the bad kids who kept coming back to the group home. 

Makes him feel good to know he’s about to go arrest that jolly bastard.

Granted, it’s not really an exciting arrest — no guns blazing, nobody barreling through Twelve Oaks to body-slam Santa to the ground. Just one of the rookies wired to all hell under his elf costume, ready to make the pickup on a single solitary bag of red ice that will finally put this case to bed. They’ve been tracking this guy for months, ever since the first couple of autopsy reports indicated something was off about the fatal dose of red ice. It had been a nastier, more virulent version of the stuff, done up in small batches in a basement but capable of dealing outsized amounts of destruction. Now they’ve traced it back to a non-threatening old fart who dandles toddlers on his knee for a living. Gavin can’t wait to drop his ass in a cell.

The rookie gets the bag. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Phil,’ he says. Gavin, outside the staff lounge, hitches his chin at Nines. Time to move into position.

Phil laughs. ‘Doing what I can to give you some Holiday Spirit.’

‘Jackass,’ Gavin says under his breath. Death-dealers always have the cutesy names for things.

They keep a careful distance until Phil Webb emerges. Nines closes the gap between them with the sort of fluid android ease that would have once made Gavin want to knock his teeth in. Now he feels a sort of pride as he watches Nines politely suggest that maybe Phil follow them, if he would be so kind. 

Phil tries to run. 

‘Wouldn’t really recommend that,’ Gavin says with a wince. He’s been on the receiving end of android force before; even when they’re holding themselves back, it’s not a sensation he’s ever been keen to repeat.

Phil makes a strangled noise. ‘Let me go, you crazy assholes — ‘

Gavin sighs. ‘We’ve got you on tape, Phil. We know about the red ice. It’s over. You have the right to remain silent…’

He kind of wishes he could have kept Phil in the Santa suit for the perp walk, but it had been nixed to avoid traumatizing the mallgoers. Still, he gets an adrenaline rush from hustling Phil into the car. 

‘How’s that for holiday spirit?’ Gavin says. 

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Phil suggests. 

Gavin shrugs at Nines. Par for the course.

—

Nines is the only person who would make this ratfuck of a season a little more tolerable. When he’s around, the colored lights don’t seem so bright and the bell-ringers don’t seem so loud. Or perhaps everything else is a little brighter to drown out all the Christmas bullshit.

‘Tina reminded me that her holiday party is tonight,’ Nines says, smashing all of Gavin’s fond feelings into a fine paste.

‘Can’t go. Told her I can’t go,’ Gavin says. ‘Fremont & Snarf marathon starts at 9.’

‘That is a terrible series of movies. And you own them.’

‘It’s an experience, and besides, they’re showing the director’s cut of _Fremont & Snarf Conquer Mars_.’ There isn’t a cut in the world that could save Fremont & Snarf Conquer Mars, but reading the synopsis alone had sent Nines into a frothing rage last time, and Gavin can’t resist.

‘Those detectives did not take the proper precautions for interstellar travel,’ Nines says stiffly. ‘I also question their jurisdiction over alien life.’

Right on schedule.

Gavin swigs his coffee (made, of course, by the one person who knows how to not make the DPD coffee taste like slop) and leans back in his chair. ‘It was established in _Fremont & Snarf Save the President_. They had world elections and decided we needed a unified human response to future alien threats. The entire epilogue of the movie went into it in great detail.’

Nines scowls.

‘See you at 8,’ says Gavin.

—

Tina texts him, of course, with a _Missing you tonight!_ snapshot of the DPD gang. Gavin ignores it. She’ll give him shit on Monday, but that’s two days out. In the meantime, he has a refrigerator full of beers, a television tuned to an abominable movie franchise, and a partner who is inexplicably ringing the doorbell like a stranger.

‘You have the code. You can just let yourself in,’ he reminds Nines.

Nines lines his shoes up neatly at the door and sheds his coat. ‘It’s only proper to ring.’

Gavin sighs. ‘If you say so.’ He pulls Nines into a lingering kiss, relishing their closeness after a long day of DPD professionalism. 

‘Tina messaged me,’ says Nines when Gavin comes up for air.

‘Can you _please_ stop ruining the moment?’ Gavin slouches into the living room and sprawls onto the sofa. ‘We can enjoy the whole night, just the two of us. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t even stop you from complaining about the continuity errors.’

‘Errors assume they were trying in the first place,’ Nines retorts. ‘They were replacing actors within the same scene.’

‘Background actors.’ Gavin moves over to make room.

‘Actors with _lines_.’

‘They were working on a shoestring budget. Anyway, you can’t beat the company.’

Gavin doesn’t get to see Mars get conquered, or even the president get saved. The last thing he remembers is the hour mark of _Fremont & Snarf: Miami Nights_ and the only semi-comfortable way he’d begun drowsing off against Nines’ shoulder. He wakes up on the sofa, tucked in under a blanket, to the early morning chill and a slightly chiding note from Nines that he’s out buying bagels because Gavin has not gotten groceries again.

 _You don’t even need to eat,_ he messages Nines. 

The reply is instantaneous. _You do. And I care about you._

_Yeah, you tell me that every day._

_Because you need to hear it. I love you. Be home soon._

Gavin sets the phone down. ‘Love you, too,’ he says to the empty house.

—

‘Everyone wanted to know where you were,’ Tina informs Gavin.

Gavin gives her a look.

‘Okay, so _Valerie_ wanted to know where you were,’ Tina amends. ‘She made gingerbread men for everybody and yours had a little frown on it. She made one for Nines, too, so you’ll have to eat it. They’re in a Tupperware on your desk. Here, look.’ She pulls out her phone and scrolls through the pictures. ‘Here’s Chris and here’s Hank. His arm got snapped off when Valerie took him off the baking tray, so she had to put him back together with icing.’

She means well, and Gavin has to admit Valerie has a real talent, but it still puts him in a sour mood. ‘Tell Valerie I said thanks,’ he mumbles before fleeing the scene. Nines meets him halfway down the hall.

‘That was brusque.’

‘Tina’s used to it.’ 

‘Everything alright?’ 

‘Fine.’ 

The Tupperware is sitting exactly where Tina had promised it would be. Gavin shoves it to the opposite corner of his desk and jogs his computer out of its dormant state. He’s being petty, and he knows he’s being petty, but he also doesn’t care enough not to be petty about it. The kindnesses now always rankle, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let anyone pull him out of the sulk. When he starts seeing the first few trees hauled out to the trash and watches the windowsills be stripped of their garlands, he’ll cheer up again.

The thought heartens him. Something to look forward to.

—

Fowler gets a tip about the Braun Imports case, ostensibly a legitimate antiques business but suspected to be a front for exotic animal smuggling, so Gavin and Nines spend their Christmas Eve parked a discreet distance from the Eternal Flame of Our Lord Baptist Tabernacle. The Tabernacle has clearly seen better days; Gavin doubts it’s held a service in his lifetime. It’s still more or less intact, though, and shoved far enough on an anonymous back street that it’s a good site for dodgy meetings like this. 

His contact is running late. Gavin runs the heat off and on and fitfully jabs at the radio to see if he can find a single station that isn’t playing ‘O Holy Night’ remixes. Nines deals with it with characteristic patience for a while, but finally takes Gavin’s hand to keep him from switching the frequency for the thousandth time. Gavin pulls away. 

‘What is it that you hate so much about this?’ Nines says finally.

Gavin shifts in his seat. Fuck it. Might as well. God knows the dirtbag he’s waiting for isn’t picking up the pace.

‘File number CL-6470318, DCFS. It’s sealed, but nothing you can’t get into.’ No one’s going to give a shit if they get a ping about access of an old foster care record from this long ago anyway. If they do, Gavin will deal with the consequences. He pauses, letting Nines dig up the file and start the scan. ‘It’s a good read. You’ll have fun,’ he adds, peering out into the darkness to see if there’s any movement at the Tabernacle. Still nothing.

He wonders which part Nines will focus on. The number of families he’d had? How quickly he’d been sent back? The four-year streak where he’d been returned to the home right before Christmas? By year three, it had become more of a point of stubborn pride. Some of the other kids had tried to get the nickname Lump of Coal to stick, but then it had turned into a quick cycle of him beating the shit out of them, them beating the shit out of him, pax being made, and everybody sobering up as soon a member of their ranks got farmed out to a new family. ‘Stay in touch!’ everybody always said, like the kids who stayed behind didn’t loathe the ones who actually got a permanent home. 

Fuckers.

They made a tiny fire pit out behind the backyard shed one year whenever the adults weren’t looking, where they tried, unsuccessfully, to melt down the shitty Christmas toys the charities would drop off. Everybody had to contribute a little — rocks to line it, sticks and papers to spark it, and Jamal, the king of the group home, would always manage to poach a lighter or some matches to get the whole thing started. Nothing really burned well; it sort of scorched, or warped, and put up a massive stink. It was the domain of the older kids, the un-adoptable ones, the ones whose placements never lasted. The littlest ones still had hope they’d get rescued, so they were still grateful for the cheap trinkets they got. A lot of them did get rescued, as long as they were small and cute enough to be docile. A lot of the older ones…well. Gavin had seen some familiar names on police reports over the years. Constant funding cuts from the state meant nobody really followed up on the kids who vanished from the system. Jamal and his girlfriend Nina were gone by 16, leaving in the dead of night before Nina’s pregnancy started to show; somebody shot Jamal in the back the week before he turned 19. Maddie ping-ponged between placement and returns and ended up with a prostitution rap sheet the length of her arm. Sara OD’d the night before she was set to age out of the system; a tourist found Danny’s body washed up on the rocks at Belle Isle after his seventh family sent him back. Nobody gave a shit about them. 

Other files, other stories. Not a lot of good memories.

He feels Nines reach for him again and squeeze his hand, just as a car pulls up to the Tabernacle. ‘Once he’s inside, we move,’ Gavin says, grateful for the distraction. ‘Can’t grab him until he gets the drive, so wait for my signal.’

Nines untwines his fingers from Gavin’s and nods. This is old and familiar territory; they can trust each other implicitly in situations like this. ‘Thank you,’ he says as they get out of the car.

‘Yeah,’ says Gavin. ‘You got everything you need?’

Nines hesitates. ‘I think so.’

—

The tip’s a bust. They walk in on a couple of scrawny dealers passing baggies of hardly enough drugs to get charges. Gavin’s so disgusted with the whole operation he confiscates the stuff, tells everyone to fuck off and go home, and stomps back to the car. They ride back to the precinct in hostile near-silence, punctuated by Gavin’s muttered profanity.

‘Waste,’ he grumbles to Nines as he slams the car door. Just go home, I’ll get the _report_ —‘ he waves his hands sarcastically -- ‘ready for Fowler.’

‘I don’t mind waiting,’ Nines says.

Gavin shrugs him off. ‘It’s fine. I need to cool down.’

Nines opens his mouth to argue.

‘Please, Nines. Really. Just for right now.’

‘Fine.’ Nines clearly isn’t convinced, but he’s not fighting it. He places a gentle kiss on Gavin’s forehead. ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘In full view of the cameras, huh? Rebel.’

‘I have seen _much_ worse at this precinct, Gavin.’

‘True. But this time it’s you.’ Gavin gives him a nudge towards the bus stop. ‘Go home. Let me finish up.’

He lights a cigarette as he watches Nines leave. Has to be nearly midnight; they’d been at the Tabernacle for what seemed like the better part of a month. He’ll celebrate with his report — hardly any work, really, but he’ll drag it out as long as possible — and probably some beers and whatever trash is on TV. He could watch one of the Fremont & Snarf entries he missed, like _Fremont & Snarf Meet Kiss_. He’s not _entirely_ sure who Kiss is; the movie calls them a band, although Gavin finds that a questionable term. Maybe they were better when they weren’t holograms.

Still, he owns the damn movie, so he might as well watch it, and maybe he’ll doze off midway through. Chances are, he’ll get called in because somebody will bludgeon a family member with a golf club before noon tomorrow, so he won’t need to fritter away too much time at home. 

Fuckin’ Christmas. Always brings out the worst in people. Gavin flicks his cigarette into the slush and heads inside.

— 

Everything on the commute home puts him in a savage mood. The red lights always last a second or two too long; the handful of drivers on the road drive too slowly. Gavin stops at a 24-hour gas station and buys a new pack of cigarettes and a burrito, just to really set the stage for a long night of wallowing. The guy behind the glass doesn’t even bother to look up from his tablet as he rings Gavin up. There’s something about the lack of pretense Gavin almost appreciates.

His house will be the only dark one on the block, that one gap in the otherwise uniformly bright smile of the neighborhood. Except, Gavin realizes as he turns onto his street and maneuvers the car into a spot that’s at least half ice, it isn’t. There’s something in the windows — candles, it looks like, based on the way they’re flickering. Someone’s lit up every window in the place. 

Gavin kicks the snow off his shoes and goes to punch the front-door code in, but the door opens first. 

‘You made it,’ Nines says.

‘I told you to go home.’

‘I didn’t listen.’ 

‘Yeah, I can see that.’ Gavin tosses down his keys and the gas station spoils. ‘Hate to disappoint you, but I’ve already got plans.’

Nines shrugs. ‘That’s fine. I didn’t have anything specific in mind for tonight anyway.’

‘You don’t have to stay.’ All of the wallowing plans feel more than a bit foolish in front of an audience.

‘But you know I will.’ Stubborn, persistent Nines, who’d only given up on the argument earlier because he knew he could pick it up again now. ‘You don’t have to be alone.’

Gavin chips at a piece of dried wax on the front windowsill. ‘Where the hell did you even find candles?’

‘You have a whole box full of them in the basement,’ Nines says.

Gavin hasn’t even really bothered to check what’s in his basement since moving in; the previous owners had apparently shoved half the city’s detritus in the corner and he hasn’t had the time or the motivation to clean it out yet. An entire box of candles is probably the least surprising thing down there.

You ass, Gavin wants to say. He wants to flip the light switch so the candle isn’t the only thing illuminating their conversation now. But he does neither of those things. He can’t stop thinking about Nines trudging all those blocks from the bus stop in the filthy gray snow, just to go into his horror show basement and find _candles_ , of all the idiotic ideas. Barely even enough light or warmth to cut through the winter chill that leaks through the glass. Gavin cups his hand around the flame and feels its feeble force. It’s trying its best, the stupid thing. Its best isn’t worth a goddamn, but it’s doing it anyway. 

Fuck this holiday, and fuck its trappings, and fuck the way this worthless, sputtering candle is putting a lump in his throat. Fuck the little constellation of lights, hardly anything against the pitch-black night, that had marked the path and told him somebody who loved him was waiting to welcome him home. 

He goes, then, into Nines’ waiting arms. The road has been so very, very long, and he is so awfully tired.


End file.
